


when something precious is near (it's hard to part)

by khnk



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khnk/pseuds/khnk
Summary: Milton Keynes's not a good place for an Aussie.





	when something precious is near (it's hard to part)

**Author's Note:**

> title and overall insipration stolen from (How it's going to) end @ Marble Sounds.  
>  _You took a step/ Without looking back / But knowing too well / How it’s going to end_

The first time Max dares to ask, Daniel just laughs, vocal chords vibrating inside his throat signing a low, energetic rumble, like Max’s just cracked the joke of the century.  
“Do you think we’ll become like them?” The question is vague enough but Max’s well aware of all the implications that just slipped past his champagne-soaked lips. Daniel laughs, definitely on the drunk side but still sober enough to see that Max means it, that’s not another joke at Nico’s expense. (It’s becoming a hobby of theirs, making fun of Britney and his tweets, filled with not-so-concealed longing for Lewis. It’s amusing, really.)  
“Worry not, mate.” Daniel is still smiling, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His breath reeks of alcohol and the words come out a bit slurred. “We are not going to.” Max exhales and lets his arms around Daniel’s waist, his head almost rested on the shoulder but not quite touching.  
“We are not fighting for the championship, aren’t we?” Daniel adds and there’s a certain bitterness in his words. It’s Max’s turn to laugh “I’m certainly not going to.” He kicks the table to underline the concept, a stiff motion dictated by frustration, and lets himself be pulled along when Daniel collapses on a plastic chair.  
“Next time.” Dan mutters, before dozing off.  “Next time I want you up there with me.”  
  
When Christian finds them, slumped on a plastic chair of an empty motorhome, Daniel’s sweaty curls plastered on his forehead and Max asleep on top of him, head carefully tucked in the crook of Daniel’s neck in a position that looks anything but comfortable, he almost feels guilty.  
Instead, he kicks their legs and shouts “Wake up, sleeping beauties, we leave in two hours.” but he’s kind enough to leave before they are fully awake, figures it’s better this way.

Max hurts everywhere, his neck is killing him, and his trainer will kill him, will kill them both, probably - if the chiropractor doesn’t get to them first, that’s it - but there’s still the aftertaste of foreign champagne on his lips and it’s making him euphoric in a way he shouldn’t be, not after a fifth place. He kisses Daniel because he can, licking the remains of alcohol away, before running to his own motorhome, no looking back. Daniel smiles, not fully sober yet, but content anyway.

***  
  
Then, Baku happens. It’s not the first time, but it feels different, somehow.  
Max doesn’t say anything and neither does Daniel, not until excuses are publicly made and PR has been handled. Dan smiles his way through the meeting with Marko like it’s a press conference and not a private meeting.  
“Fear not, Christian.” Daniel says, and his expression betrays nothing. “I’m not Mark.”  
There’s no reply but Max knows a threat when he sees one. Glassy doors close behind Daniel’s back and Max watches them, still in his chair. Christian is saying something to him, about the championship, probably, but he’s not listening. There’s something akin to fear rumbling in his ears, low and constant and it feels too much like Daniel’s laughter.

They don’t talk that much after. Max gets the podium in Spain and drinks Sangria until he’s singing along to some Spanish Eurobeat song with someone who looks too much like Raikkonen, but Daniel isn’t there to see his performance, has gone out with Alonso and Sainz to party somewhere else, has probably been brought to a locals-only club with pretty chicks and mean drinks.  
What a shame, Max thinks, as he passes out.  
The alcohol on his lips tastes bitter.  
  
***  
  
Max thinks, for a moment, how it would be great to win in Monaco, how would it feel, to make Daniel feel a stranger on his home streets and then he speeds and speeds until the barriers at the Piscine are too close.  
It’s only when he comes back to the box, helmet in hand and frustration running through his body, that it hits him.  
He observes Daniel flying his way through the narrow streets, walking them down like he owns them, and thinks of Nico, who owns those very streets all the same, and Lewis who could never claim them the way he wanted to. Lewis who could never claim Nico the way he wanted to and  
_we are not friends_.  
Max feels a lump clamping down his throat, suddenly.

They don’t talk on Saturday and they only exchange brief conversations on Sunday to please the media. It’s not after everything’s done and Daniel’s claimed his win that Max walks to his yacht in the middle of the night, getting scolded by Massa along the way because _ain’t you a bit to young kiddo? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?_  
“I don’t want to not be friends.” Max shouts, only one foot in Daniel’s room. Hell, it’s dark and he’s not even sure Daniel’s in there, or if he’s awake or asleep or if he’s with someone. He doesn’t care. “Please.”  
Daniel makes a noncommittal grunt, he’s probably drunk, Max figures, but follows the sound anyway and climbs onto the small bed.  
“Take your fucking shoes off.” Dan says, and turns around. There’s only the faint light of Dan’s iPhone screen, buzzing constantly with notifications, but even in the dark he can see that Daniel eyes are red rimmed.  
  
It’s when none of them attempts to talk that Max starts to kiss the salt path that runs down Dan’s cheeks, climbing up from chin to lips only to start again. “I don’t have other friends, there.” Max admits, when he has to stop because his own tears are getting in the way. Daniel doesn’t answer, his breath even and calm, just wraps an arm around Max’s shoulders and cuddles him closer. The water beneath them is still and dark and Max evens his breath to the rhythm of Dan’s.

Monaco is a turning point, meaning: the car is a disaster, nothing ever works, something always breaks and it’s frustrating for everyone involved. Christian screams, some mechanics leave, others don’t but threaten to and every time a Renault representative walks in there’s a betting pool on whenever he’ll leave with a black eye or not.  
Max kicks piles of tires and Daniel listens to his music with the volume so high it’s a wonder he’s not gone deaf yet. Sometimes, Daniel lets him borrow an earbud when they are on the plane and the others are asleep. When he shares the plane with the other Monegasque guys, Britney raises a brow, but doesn’t comment. It’s good. The car doesn’t work, but they do.  
  
***

Red Bull Ring is a tragedy on his own. It’s not the lederhosen or the lack of thereof, Max’s quite fond of it, it makes his ass look better, but it’s how Daniel’s car breaks down and his own doesn’t and he knows Daniel’s not blaming him or resenting him (yet) but there’s something low lurching in his stomach, a bad feeling he can’t shake.  
He lets Daniel taste the champagne, waits until he’s done before resting his head in the crook of the neck.  
“Next time, I want you up there with me.” Max says, definitely too sober.  
Daniel chuckles. It’s wrong. There’s supposed to be a vibration, Adam’s apple bobbing and jokes about the cheap sentimentalism. Instead Daniel says “In America, mate. I’ll make you do a shoey, now that you can drink there.”  
Max nods, blames it on the bad day and goes to brush his teeth.

*** 

Daniel makes a joke about them switching roles in Germany and Hungary and Max’s glad no one’s gotten it. Ok, maybe Christian’s got it, but he hasn’t said anything yet, so it’s a good sign. It makes Max hopeful. Maybe they can make this whole thing work.  
But then Daniel says “I want to tell you something before summer break.” and Max feels like someone pulled the pavement under his feet.  
“I’m leaving. After this season, I leave.” Daniel tells him, straight to the point. No preliminaries to sugar coat the thing. Nothing.  
“Forever? You are like” Max pauses, because the concept is hard on him and he can’t bring himself to say it loud. “…retiring?”  
“Moving to a different team, not retiring. I’m not that old. Yet.” The underlying sarcasm is hard to miss, but Max doesn’t reply, doesn’t take the bait. “Ferrari?” He dares to ask. He’s heard rumours, everyone in the paddock has, but then, this has been a particularly silly season and Max’s tuned out all the media bullshit early on. Maybe he shouldn’t have.  
Daniel laughs, vocal chords vibrating inside his throat making a low, energetic rumble, like Max’s just cracked the joke of the century.  
“Renault.”  
“Why?” Max asks, seriously confused “Hasn’t their engine, like, blown up on you thrice?”  
“Well, because Milton Keynes’s not for Aussies. Too humid, too cold. Jev said I would like the weather down in France.”  
  
Max’s been very good at managing his anger, lately. Sure, he may have kicked a few piles of tyres, but everyone does that every now and then.  
But now it’s hard to not take Daniel by the shoulders, pin him to the wall and kiss him hard and breaking his nose in the process, making him reconsider the most stupid decision he’s ever made.  
He cries, instead, because it’s easier and faster and he’s started already, without meaning to. “Since when do you care about what Jev says?” it’s hard to speak, English doesn’t come easy and there’s this lump clogging his throat.  
“Since when it was the only seat available.”  
“You could’ve stayed.”  
“I thought you didn’t want us to end like them.” Daniel says, a sense of finality permeating his words. He walks away, shoulders slumped and jaw tight. Max watches him go.  
  
***

Summer break comes and go. Victoria steals his ice cream and calls him a lovestruck dork but doesn’t otherwise mock him and even offers a crying shoulder, when she’s not out with her friends.  
“Poor Maxie, getting his heart broken. I’d fight him for you, but he’s kinda hot. Not that I’d date him after he hurt you. Not right after, at least.”  
He steals her blanket, the soft one, with the otters printed on it, and goes to bed, eyes red.  
“It’s not like you are pretty enough for him.” Max retorts, before slamming the door.  
“It’s august, moron, you sleep under that one, you are going to die of heat stroke” she tells him from down the corridor.  
“Well, maybe I want to!” he replies, but there’s already a smile forming on his lips.  
  
Christian calls him, says he’s sorry he wasn’t told before, _it was all very sudden, you see_.  
Max hangs up on him and then takes on Raikkonen’s advice. He sets the voicemail and then throws the phone down the pool. It feels nice. He can pretend it doesn’t hurt the fact that Dan hasn’t written him once.  
  
***

It’s hot in Spa and there’s an orange-coloured crowd cheering occupying three quarters of the grandstands. Stoffel jokes “see, they are there for me and McLaren.” and Max laughs in a way he hasn’t done since Austria.  
“Want to go dinner together, after? My place? Girlfriend is trying to cook and she’s getting really good at it.” Stoffel offers. Max considers not going for a moment, because he’s used to spend the pre-race with Daniel, but he’s not sure now, if he can handle it, if Dan ever wants to. So he nods, and says “Do I have to bring something?”  
“Just your sorry ass. And a digestive, just in case she makes me help with the dessert.”  
So Max goes and has the most fun he’s had in ages, teaming up with Stoffel’s girlfriend to tickle him until he’s tear-eyed and begging for help.  
“I’ll ask Fernando to avenge me.” Stoffel declares, trying to sound menacing and failing so hard, a pouty expression on his lips.  
“Yeah, sure, I’ll be ready when the ninja comes.” Max replies, one foot already outside the door. “Next time, you could come to my place, just saying. I can’t cook, but we can order.”  
He doesn’t think of Daniel at all that night or the night after. It’s good.  
  
Journalists ask during press conferences, it’s their job, after all. Daniel replies friendly, has the answers ready and when someone asks if he’s leaving because he’s tired of being the second driver, Daniel avoids the topic, says he’s just looking for a new challenge and a change of wardrobe.  
“Yellow brings out my tanned skin more than blue does.” he jokes and then pilots the press conference as he pleases, playing with the press, baiting them and offering them so many great one-liners that they will forget to mention the obvious Webber parallel.  
Max instead settles for watching Mark, standing in a corner and observing them from afar, and thinking of how badly it could have ended for him and Sebastian, how close they were to burning every bridge and how they hug now on the podium, still awkwardly, like a couple of divorced spouses trying to reconnect after they’ve taken everything from each other in court, but sincere.  
He thinks of Nico, of how it didn’t work for him and how maybe, just maybe, Daniel’s made the right call.  
Someone then asks him a question and he doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t even know to what he should reply and he’s thankful when Lewis laughs and puts a firm hand on his knee.  
“Cut the dude some slack, it’s his home race, he’s clearly too happy to race for the home crowd to give you a coherent answer right now.” Lewis says, a cheeky smile on his lips. The questions stop and the few that keep coming, Max answers them the best he can, eyes still fixated on the thin figure standing far away from everyone.  
  
“Thank you.”  
“Just stop brooding on live TV dude, I mean it.” Lewis says but all Max hears is _do as I say not as I did._  
  
And so, he clings to the podium. Max gets third, and Daniel’s car breaks down, but it’s routine by now and Max has stopped caring, tried to stop caring, at least. It’s not like it is his own fault.  
The champagne dries on his lips, sweet and heavy, lingers on his teeth and it feels foreign. He wants to ask Lewis if this is how defeat tastes, sour and beautiful, a sweet sensation eating him from the inside, a cavity making its way into his teeth and heart. Instead, he goes to bed and doesn’t lock the door to his own hotel room.  
No one comes, except for his PR manager at seven in the morning, telling him he’s got a scheduled interview in under thirty minutes, could he at least brush his hair, please?  
Max complies and talks and talks and talks, until all it remains is the disgusting taste of rotting sugar and saliva.  
  
***  
  
Daniel smiles thorough Italy and Singapore, manages to keep it together in Sochi but when the plane lands in Suzuka and the car doesn’t work he screams and kick the tyres in a motion so familiar, Max almost feels like it’s his own foot who lands against the solid rubber. It’s sobering, in a way, to know that he marked Daniel in ways he’ll never ever know of, in ways he’ll never be able to get rid of. He jumps in the car on Sunday, and there’s a new knowledge settled in between his shoulders, a pleasant weight. Not that it matters, not now that the helmet is on and all he has to do is push, push, push.  
On Saturday Max climbs back, from thirteenth to ninth in just a lap while Daniel is still struggling behind, stuck in the traffic, and then the podium is his, a third place that feels like a first.  
  
In a way, it feels like a deja-vu, except this time Max doesn’t lock himself in his own room. Instead he follows Dan, pushes him in the first empty corner and puts the champagne on Daniel’s lips himself, sweet and wanting. He knows he tastes bad, post-race breath mixed with alcohol, but not as bad as the words that Daniel murmurs on his lips.  
“I did it for my career.” He says, eyes closed and the tone’s soft, but the words are heavy, like he’s been carrying them around for fifty-three laps.  
There are lots of things Max could say “And look how well it worked out with you and Jev.” is what almost slips past his tongue, before he can stop and choke down the anger. He’s thought about it more than he’d like to admit, in between races and gym sessions so he says, so weakly he’s not sure he's said it at all “I would have done the same.”

Someone once said admitting guilt is the first step to defeat, but there are no winners in there, only losers, and Max has been on enough podiums to know what two losers do.  
Losers celebrate. For it could have been worse, for how they’ve made it in spite of everything. So, Max steps forward, head low, pressing his forehead against Daniel’s shoulder, like his old cat used to do when she was old and sick. It’s not an apology – they don’t own each other anything, Max doesn’t own Daniel anything, it’s not his fault he’s just better and faster and younger – it’s acceptance.

Dan laughs, vocal chords vibrating inside his throat signing a low, energetic rumble, like Max’s just cracked the joke of the century.  
“We should do a shoey to celebrate” he whispers, voice broken, against Max’s hair.  
“Next week.”  
“On the podium?”  
“On the podium. I want you up there with me.”  
Max lets Daniel ruffle his hair, fingers pulling at the scalp and dragging his head up.  
“To the fact that we didn’t end up like them.” Max says, before diving in.  
  
The kiss tastes awful, too sweet and rotten, the dried saliva at the corner of Daniel lips tastes sour and the tears are making everything saltier than it needs to be, but it’s good in a way it hasn’t been since Monaco, and he’s stopped caring.  
For now, Max thinks, as he laughs his way onto Daniel’s neck, they are the good. The car might not work, but they do.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first time in this fandom and my first time managing to write something over 3k words, I guess.  
> Just take it off my hands


End file.
